The Egg Command System
I ordered breakfast in America.
Simple.
Toast.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Peace.
Then the waitress looked at me and asked,
“How do you want your eggs?”
I froze.
How.
Do I want.
My eggs.
In Japan, eggs usually arrive with a plan.
In America, the egg waits for your leadership.
I said,
“Cooked.”
She smiled.
“What kind?”
Kind?
There were kinds?
She began listing them.
“Sunny side up, over easy, over medium, over hard, scrambled, poached…”
I stopped hearing words.
I heard military ranks.
Sunny Side Up sounded optimistic.
Over Easy sounded suspiciously injured.
Over Medium sounded like a compromise made by tired diplomats.
Over Hard sounded like the egg had survived prison.
Scrambled sounded like the egg lost the war.
Poached sounded illegal.
I asked,
“Which one is safest?”
The waitress said,
“Safe?”
A man at the next table said,
“Just get scrambled, bro.”
Just get scrambled.
America always says “just” before asking you to surrender your dignity.
I looked at him.
“I will not choose cowardice without understanding the battlefield.”
He nodded slowly and returned to his coffee.
The waitress waited.
Patient.
Powerful.
She had guided many men through egg panic.
I pointed at the menu.
“What is sunny side up?”
She said,
“Yolk up.”
“What is over easy?”
“Flipped. Runny yolk.”
“What is over hard?”
“Flipped. Cooked all the way.”
So the egg could be exposed.
Turned over.
Wounded.
Hardened.
Broken.
Or scrambled beyond recognition.
This was not breakfast.
This was an egg career path.
I finally said,
“Over easy.”
The waitress wrote it down.
No ceremony.
No bell.
Just ink on paper.
A decision had been made about the soul of an egg.
When the plate arrived, the eggs looked calm.
Too calm.
White body.
Yellow center.
Soft.
Dangerous.
I touched the yolk with a fork.
It broke immediately.
Golden liquid spread across the plate.
I whispered,
“I have released the sun.”
The man next to me said,
“That’s the best part.”
Of course.
America does not fear the broken yolk.
America puts toast in it.
I tried.
The toast entered the golden flood.
My brain objected.
My mouth promoted the idea.
By the second bite, I understood.
In America, an egg is not cooked.
It is negotiated.
By the third bite, I was no longer afraid.
I had chosen over easy.
The egg had accepted me.
Next time, I may attempt over medium.
Not because I am ready.
Because a warrior must continue his studies in breakfast warfare.